(gap: 2s) When I cast my mind back to my childhood in the 1980s, I am enveloped in a whirlwind of memories—some sweet, some stinging, all vivid. Our small town was a place where the days seemed to stretch on endlessly, golden and slow, filled with the laughter of children playing in sunlit fields and the gentle hum of family life. My siblings and I would race down quiet streets, our voices echoing off brick walls, or gather in the living room, giggling over silly jokes and secret games. There was a warmth to those days, a sense of safety and belonging that wrapped around me like a favourite blanket.
(short pause) But childhood was not always carefree. There were moments when I tested boundaries, when curiosity or mischief got the better of me. I was, for the most part, a well-behaved child, and my relationship with my parents—especially my mother—was close and loving. Yet, like any child, I sometimes pushed too far. And when I did, my mother believed in discipline—not out of anger, but out of a deep sense of care and responsibility.
(pause) The ritual of a spanking in our home was a world unto itself, a sequence of moments that seemed to slow time and sharpen every sensation. It always began with a hush—a sudden quiet in the house, the air thick with anticipation. My mother’s voice would call me, gentle but unwavering, and my heart would leap into my throat. I’d feel a strange mix of dread and relief, knowing what was coming, knowing it was deserved. My feet would feel heavy as I walked toward her, the floorboards cool and smooth beneath my toes, my hands fidgeting at my sides.
(short pause) My mother would be seated, her posture composed, her eyes kind but serious. She never looked angry—her face was calm, her movements measured, as if she were performing a necessary duty. She would pat her lap, and I’d climb across, the fabric of her skirt soft against my skin, the scent of her perfume mingling with the faint aroma of laundry soap. The world would narrow to just the two of us, the room fading away until all I could hear was the sound of my own breathing and the steady beat of my heart.
(pause) She would begin by explaining, her voice low and even, what I had done wrong. There was no shouting, no harshness—just a quiet certainty that this was for my own good. I’d feel a flush of shame, my cheeks burning hotter than the anticipation in my bottom, and sometimes I’d blink back tears before the first smack even landed. Then, with a gentle but firm hand, she would start the ‘warm up’—six measured slaps, each one stinging sharply, the sound echoing in the stillness. The sensation was immediate: a bright, tingling heat that made me squirm, but it was never cruel. It was a signal, a warning, a line being drawn.
(short pause) After the warm up, she would reach for the clothes brush. I remember the cool, hard weight of it, the way it gleamed in the light. She would alternate from one cheek to the other, each smack landing with a crisp, resonant thwack. The pain would build, each stroke layering over the last, until my skin felt hot and swollen, the ache deepening with every blow. My breath would hitch, my fingers gripping the fabric of her skirt, my legs kicking reflexively. Sometimes I’d cry out, sometimes I’d grit my teeth and try to be brave, but always there was a point where the pain crested—a wave that broke and left me gasping, my bottom throbbing, my eyes wet with tears.
(pause) Through it all, my mother’s demeanor never changed. She was steady, almost serene, her hand resting on my back between strokes, her voice a quiet anchor in the storm. She would pause, letting the sting settle, and speak to me—softly, reassuringly—reminding me that I was loved, that this was not about anger but about learning and growing. I’d feel a strange comfort in her touch, even as I sobbed, a sense that I was safe, that the world was still in order.
(short pause) The final part was always the gentlest. She would finish with a few softer hand smacks, her palm warm and familiar, as if sealing the lesson with kindness. Then she would smooth her hand over my burning skin, her touch cool and soothing, and pull me upright into her arms. I’d bury my face in her shoulder, my tears soaking into her blouse, and she would hold me close, rocking me gently, her heartbeat steady against my ear. In those moments, the pain faded, replaced by a deep, aching relief—a sense that I was forgiven, that I could start fresh.
(pause) Afterwards, I’d slip away to the bathroom, curiosity and embarrassment mingling as I turned to inspect the aftermath. The mirror would reveal a patchwork of pink and red, my skin hot to the touch, and I’d wince as I pulled up my shorts, the fabric rough against the lingering heat. But the soreness was oddly reassuring—a reminder that I had paid for my mistake, that the slate was clean. Soon enough, the ache would fade, replaced by a lightness in my chest, a sense of peace and belonging.
(short pause) Sometimes, when guilt weighed especially heavy, I’d find myself offering up my bottom a little more, wanting to show I understood, wanting to make things right. The pain was real, but so was the comfort that followed—the knowledge that I was loved enough to be corrected, that my mother cared enough to guide me back to the right path.
(pause) Those memories, both the joy and the discipline, shaped me. They taught me about love, forgiveness, and the quiet strength of a mother’s hand. Even now, I can close my eyes and feel the echo of those moments—the sting, the embrace, the gentle return to the rhythms of home. And I am grateful, not for the pain, but for the love that held me through it all.
